


Tea and Synchronicity

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-22
Updated: 2003-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:42:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1627319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Granny Weatherwax decides she wants a bit of a change</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Synchronicity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Vivien529

 

 

Tea and Synchronicity 

"So Magrat's going to Ankh-Morpork next week, on holiday," Agnes said casually as she put the teacup on the table in front of Granny. It was a calculated kind of casual, teetering on the edge of obvious, and Agnes held her breath while she waited for the result. 

"Hrmph," Granny said, and inside Agnes's head, Perdita began jumping up and down in anticipation of a lovely trip. 

Nanny bustled in then, and in the whirl of coat and scarves and nearly-knocked-off-the-table cream cakes, Agnes thought she'd lost the momentum. She hadn't counted on one important factor, though. 

"Our Shawn's off the to city, then," Nanny said around a mouthful of scone. 

"Is he," Granny said, her voice like a sackful of coal dragged over the cobblestones at midnight. Most people would have found any excuse to leave the room (or maybe the country) hearing it, but Nanny pressed on. 

"Ooh, yes, and Verence, 'scuse me, His Majesty's promised him a Day Off With Pay in appreciation for all his hard work." 

Agnes thought that one day off seemed a pittance, since Shawn Ogg was eighty-five percent of the castle staff, serving at various times as butler, page, footman, guard, and handyman, but Nanny had raised all of her children with a strong work ethic (although certainly not by example) and evidently saw nothing wrong with the exchange rate. 

"Hrmph," Granny said again, determined not to be interrupted this time. "Don't hold with it, myself, such carryings-on. I'm surprised at you, Gytha, letting him go off like that." 

Agnes could feel the stirrings in the air and wondered whether she could hide under the bed. Perdita cackled madly and pulled up a chair. 

"Our Shawn," Nanny said, stirring her tea sharply, "will not be Carrying On. He's a good boy." 

Granny thought, privately, that Shawn was far too dim to get up to anything much, but it wouldn't do to say so. "Well," she said, infusing her tone with as much doubt as possible, "I suppose you know best ..." 

"I'm sure I don't know what you're implying, Esme," said Nanny, who was, in fact, fairly sure, but certain things must be said, regardless. 

"Nothing," said Granny, following along in the unwritten script. "All your boys know right from wrong." 

"That's right," said Nanny stoutly, and helped herself to the last cream-cake. Really, Agnes could have put out a _few_ more. 

Granny barreled on. "Shawn can take care of himself. He's a big boy now. Just last week I overheard Inconvenience O'Hara saying how wide his shoulders were." 

"That hussy --" spluttered Nanny, before remembering herself. 

A small smile formed at the very corner of Granny's mouth before disappearing. All Nanny's daughters-in-law were required to be meek, hardworking, and fertile. Inconvenience O'Hara fulfilled only one of those requirements. She played her final card. "Now, now, Gytha, all children must leave the nest sometime. We can't choose who they marry." 

"We'll see about that," muttered Nanny. In Agnes's head, Perdita started packing.   
 

* * *

  


The trip to Ankh-Morpork was nearly without incident -- after the first band of brigands saw who was traveling with the party, word seemed to spread and after that the coach only stopped for Nanny's calls of nature. Dusk found them stopped at the gates of the city by a very bored looking guard in a dented helmet and breastplate. 

"Country of origin?" he mumbled, looking at a sheet of parchment and tapping a quill impatiently. 

"I -- er, _we_ ," said Verence, after a jab in the ribs from Magrat's elbow reminded him of the proper etiquette, "have come from --" 

"Hey, ain't you Cooper the baker's youngest?" interrupted Nanny. The guard's head jerked up. He stared in horror at Nanny's beaming face. " 'Course you are. Seems like just yesterday you was chasing the cow through my garden." 

"WelcomeToAnkhMorporkHaveAPleasantStayThankYouForNotLooting!" said the luckless guard, banging into the side of the guard shack in his haste to be gone. 

"Well!" said Magrat. 

"He's prob'ly late for supper," said Nanny. "Where to now?" 

Discussion ensued, none of it profitable but most of it loud. Granny stared out of the window while trying to appear to not be staring. The city was just as she remembered -- big and bustling and nothing like home. Made a body feel different just watching. 

A friendly voice cut through the hubbub inside the coach, breaking her concentration. "May I possibly be of some help?" it asked. Granny refocused her eyes and looked up. An earnest face peered at her from under a better-kept (and very shiny) version of the erstwhile guard's helmet. "Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, of The Watch," the face said. 

"Esme Weatherwax," she replied without thinking. "Ironfoundersson -- ain't that a Dwarf name?" 

Carrot beamed. "Indeed it is, Mistress Weatherwax." 

She squinted at him. "You know me?" 

"Only by reputation," he said, and ... he was still smiling. This sort of thing didn't happen in Granny's world -- folks were much more inclined to back away nervously, nodding their heads a lot. 

"And you ain't scared?" she asked, just to clarify the situation. 

"I don't believe so," he said, looking thoughtful. "Is there any reason I should be?" 

"No-o-o," she said, looking into his eyes and finding nothing there that she could call guilt, fear, or any other of the more common emotions. "I don't guess there is." 

"Well, then," he said briskly, "why don't we see if we can't get you folks to where you're going?"   
 

* * *

  


'Where they were going' turned out to be the Palace of the Patrician. It looked to Granny like a few coats of whitewash would improve it considerably, but once she got settled on the sofa near to the teapot (and once Magrat remembered her manners and poured), things looked a bit better. The Patrician, about whom she'd only heard whispered rumours on her last visit, had inclined his head to her, as was proper, and was now offering her the plate of chocolate biscuits. 

"Thank you, I'm sure," she said, drawing on dim memories of formal teas past. "You're too kind." 

The Patrician looked surprised, but replied only with "Not at all," before turning to Magrat with the biscuits. Since Nanny and Agnes had gone off somewhere to be soppy over the baby, he seemed to feel this completed his duty toward the fairer sex, and he began a desultory conversation with Verence about armor. 

Granny took this opportunity to consider the strange feeling she'd had ever since that odd conversation with the dwarf at the gate. She wasn't used to being treated as ordinary - at least not by folks who knew her profession. She'd been feared, cringed from, kowtowed to, and only occasionally sneered at (much to the detriment of the sneerer, in each case), but she'd never been* polited* like that. 

She didn't much care for it, and that was a fact. It grated on her. She looked at Magrat, who'd taken pretty well to Queening after the first disastrous months when she'd actually tried to tell folks what to do. Granny never told anyone what to do. She believed in the power of suggestion, which kept her larder full and her chimney clean as if by magic. 

Yep, that was power all right, Granny's kind of power. Magrat wouldn't ever understand it, for all her book-reading and Improving Projects. Folks just wanted things to be simple, and what could be simpler than helping little old ladies? Granny provided an important service, over and above any wart-cures or love-charms she might dispense. 

She leaned back on the sofa and sighed. A change of scene was good, it gave a body some perspective. Now she was looking forward to going back to her cottage, where she belonged. 

It was good to be a witch in Lancre. 

 


End file.
